


Merry Happy

by dashwood



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Meet-Cute, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9590276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: A collection of unrelated one-shots; mostly meet-cute scenes.





	1. Neighbors

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: you live across the hall and hide in my apartment when you want to avoid your one night stands au

Liz has had weird neighbors before, alright.  

There was this one stoner kid in college who used to hang around the hallway in his boxer shorts - Lenny, he was called. And then there was that odd couple down on Main Street whose cat kept digging up her flower bed, only that Liz never actually saw any cat around their street. And of course old Mr. Jenkins who lived right next door from her in that little broke-down flat Liz rented out during her second year at Quantico, and who asked her if she would be interested in selling him her worn-out shoes.

But Red? Red was in a whole different league altogether.

Oh, he was nice enough, that much was true. Whenever he showed up at her door with a paper bag of take-away bagels and a boyish smile at 7am, Liz couldn’t help but be utterly charmed by him. He was always polite and sweet, reading her passages from his newspaper which he thought would interest her or asking her about her plans for the day. Plus, he always made sure to repay her for all the orange juice and coffee he had while at her place.

So yeah, Liz likes him well enough (maybe even a bit too much, if she’s honest with herself) even if it had taken her a while to warm up to their impromptu breakfast sessions (because really, what was this? Some kind of real-life crossover between _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ and John Hughes’ _the Breakfast Club_?).

If only there weren’t his constant late-night visitors.

Or rather his early-morning leavers, considering that the only time Liz ever saw them was right before breakfast when Red wasn’t quick enough to close the door to his apartment and Liz got a glimpse of smooth legs all toweled-up disappearing into the bedroom.

Liz sighs and stabs the spatula irritatedly around her scrambled eggs.

Red is blissfully unaware of her thoughts, just sits quietly at her kitchen table and reads that article on Bhutan wildlife he’s been excited about ever since he let himself in while she was still in the shower (a habit which should probably make her want to stab him in the throat with a pen, but which she is surprisingly laid-back about).

A sudden noise from the hallway interrupts her musings and before she even knows what she’s doing, her feet are rushing her towards the door while a quick “I think the mail’s arrived, I’ll just be back in a sec-” spills over her lips. And of course this wasn’t planned, because of course Liz isn’t that kind of stalker neighbor - the one who lies awake at night thinking of ways to find out if her hot neighbor who keeps coming over for (platonic?) breakfast dates has a type, or if the women he brings home are a study in individuality instead.

But when Liz slips out into the hallway (feeling slightly ridiculous with her bare feet and damp hair), the never-ending loop of ‘God, I hope Red is into brunettes’ her functioning-on-autopilot brain keeps throwing at her is suddenly interrupted by a loud, neon-bright buzz of ‘Well, I did not expect _that_ ’ sizzling inside her head in an extra-high frequency.

Because standing before her isn’t some beautiful woman who matches Red’s quick wits and well-mannered sophistication.  

Instead, Liz comes face to face with a group of middle-aged Japanese men.

And well, isn’t this confusing?

They barely take any note of her as they shuffle past her towards the elevator as if the wide-eyed woman in the hallway is merely a part of the scenery, just like that odd stain on the wall next to her door or the broken tile two steps away from the fire escape.

Eventually, they disappear into the elevator and as its door pings closed behind them, their merry chatter dies away at once and leaves Liz standing alone and bewildered in the empty hallway.

After a few minutes, she turns and goes back into her apartment.

Much to her surprise, Red is waiting for her in the little entry hall of her apartment. He looks serious, somber even. The fingers of his right hand are tapping against his thigh in a silent staccato, and if Liz didn’t know it any better she’d say that he looks disappointed in her, as if she had somehow betrayed his trust.

(It’s a completely ridiculous thought, of course. After all, it’s not as if she’s done anything _wrong_. Right?)

“I was just… you know.” She tries to shrug it off, tries for cute nonchalance instead of crazy infatuation, but fears she just ends up looking pathetic in the process. To top it all off, she can feel the tangy bite of mortification spread through her.

Red doesn’t say anything, but there’s a nervous twitch just below his eye that makes her want to smooth it over with her fingers. She doesn’t though. It’s enough that now he probably thinks she’s a weirdo (and maybe he’s internally going through the _for rent_ listings of his newspaper right now, wondering if there’s any place nearby without crazy neighbors checking out his one-night stands).

After a second, his eyes flicker past her to the door. It looks almost as if he’s expecting someone to barge in at any moment now, and Liz wonders if he’s in trouble, if maybe he’s being blackmailed by a bunch of Japanese business man who are forcing him to provide room and board for them and their nefarious crimes and - well, nevermind, that one sounded completely ridiculous even to her.

Liz sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I just wanted to get a look at your girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend?”

“Well, yeah,” Liz shrugs. Her cheeks are starting to burn and even the incessant stroking of her fingers against the scar on her wrist isn’t enough to calm her racing nerves. “Girlfriend, lover, date - whatever. You keep bringing women over and I just wanted to… I don’t know. See if you have a type, I guess.”

She can’t even meet his eyes, just keeps staring at his shoes instead. They’re nice ones, too. Perfectly polished and absolutely immaculate, and Liz thinks she could probably pick him out of a whole crowd of men just by his shoes.

But then he laughs, warm and happy, and suddenly all the tension drains out of the room. 

“Oh Lizzy,” he says and Liz isn’t sure if she’s just imagining the affection that tints her name when it falls from his lips. Dragging her eyes back up to his face, Liz is taken aback by the elated smile and the amused glint in his eyes. He looks so happy, positively ecstatic - it makes him look years younger.  

(Liz wishes he’d smile like that more often. It’s not that he usually mopes around her kitchen whenever he’s there - it’s just that there’s this melancholic air about him, something distant and tragic, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his designer-clad shoulders.)

“I fear I’ve given you an entirely wrong impression,” he says with a shake of his head. “I have rented that apartment solely for business meetings.”

“And when you say business meetings…”  
  
Red chuckles again, and Liz likes to think that in this very moment he looks incredibly fond of her.

(And maybe their little breakfasts weren’t that platonic, after all…)

“Let me get your coat, Lizzy. I don’t think your scrambled eggs are salvageable, but fortunately for you I know this absolutely _endearing_ little bakery - you’ll adore their sweet potato cupcakes!”


	2. Set up by friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set up by friends

“So let me get this straight,” Liz mumbles around a spoonful of ice cream. “You want to set me up with your boss who just got divorced last month, because for the past two years you’ve been thinking that he and I would make a cute couple?” 

Meera shrugs, a bit helplessly. To Liz, it looks like her initial enthusiasm about this whole idea has been wavering in the face of her obvious unwillingness to play along (but really, what kind of sane person shows up with a family-sized pint of Ben&Jerry’s in the middle of the night to celebrate the finalization of their boss’ divorce?)

“All I’m saying is that I think you should give him a chance. He’s intelligent, funny, downright charming-”  
  
“Isn’t he also like 20 years older?”

“So?”

“I’m just saying,” Liz shrugs her shoulders as she stuffs another bite of ice cream into her mouth. “He’s a high-ranking government official - an Admiral, for god’s sake - who just got out of a serious relationship. Why do you think he would possibly be interested in me?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question, Liz thinks. Which is why she doesn’t feel that the mischievous grin on Meera’s face is justified. It’s utterly unbecoming, really. Makes her look a bit like a cat dragging a defenseless little mouse out of its hole. “Because he comes up with the most ridiculous excuses to hang around my office just so he can get a glimpse of that picture of you at Samar’s engagement party when it pops up on my screensaver slideshow.”

Liz feels the heat rush into her cheeks. “So what, you’re probably just imagining that-”

“Look,” Meera sounds frustrated now, downright exasperated really. There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes and Liz knows that she doesn’t stand a chance of winning this argument. “I’m going to give him your number and you’re going to grab some drinks with him. And then you’re going to set me up with a cute guy in a naval uniform at your wedding.”

Liz rolls her eyes at her. But still, she can’t quite squash that annoying fluttering of hope inside of her.


	3. 4.15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 4.15 The Apothecary

It’s dark outside.

There’s a faint glow falling in through the window’s blinds - a streetlight, he thinks. Its yellowish hue mingles with the br ight blue buzz of a neon street sign to fall in acid-green blotches onto the sheets.

It makes her look slightly alien, her pale skin painted almost olive. She looks otherworldly and breathtakingly beautiful.

The last time they spoke he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get to see her again.

Her eyes are fixed on his face, looking but not seeing. He thinks she might be day-dreaming - _night_ -dreaming - but then she gets up and moves around the dark. She doesn’t say anything and he’s grateful for it. Everything hurts; his limbs feel as if he’s been thrown out a window, his throat is aching terribly every time he tries to swallow. Even his teeth hurt.

He wonders if she’ll leave now that he’s awake. Maybe she’ll get Dembe first before leaving to go back to Tom and Agnes - her little makeshift family. And maybe they’ll just forget about this whole incident altogether - it’ll be just another story, a nonsensical watercooler anecdote about ‘Hey Red, remember that one time you got poisoned and almost died - what a blast.’

But then she’s back at his side, a glass of water in her hand. The simple act of grasping it with his hand turns out to be an almost impossible feat - his fingers are trembling and his nerve endings are still ablaze from the havoc the poison has wreaked in his system. Still, the chilled ice water feels wonderfully calming against the heated skin of his hand, the little pellets of condensed water clinging to the tips of his fingers.

Red looks up to thank her, but is at once taken aback by the careful lack of emotion he finds on her face.

“You can never do that again.”  

Her words create an echo in his mind, the memory so vivid it makes his head hurt. There’s the smell of leather seats in a darkened car, glaring police lights flashing all around them. There’s his racing heart and the concrete floor against his aching knees, the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head, and then there’s -

“Lizzy.”  

His voice is incredibly dark even to his own ears. He sounds as if he hasn’t spoken a word in weeks and it makes him wonder just how long he has been out, if it has been mere hours or days or weeks or even years (he wonders if that’s an apt way of measuring time to him anymore, or if it would be easier to simply count the number of times she has called him by his name, the number of smiles she bestows on him, the feel of her in his arms. The number of times she’s looked at him as if he’s a monster, cruel and horrible and selfish for wanting to be with her despite knowing better.)

“You can’t-” Her voice breaks and she looks away. He knows exactly how she feels, has seen her dark eyes, red and swollen, and if he could just _move_ , could just get up and take her in his arms he _knows_ that he could make everything alright again. “You can’t just leave.”

(Her voice cuts off abruptly and Red thinks - wishes, _craves_ \- that she was going to say ‘-leave _me_ ’.)

“And how is this any different than Cuba?”

It’s the first time he has mentioned her reckless little attempt at escape in so many words. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as he sees the sudden trembling of her lips. She looks as if she’s trying to hold herself together and the knowledge that _he_ is the reason she feels like this is almost enough to bring him to his knees.

“It’s different because _I need you_. I need to know that you’re okay, that you’re somewhere out there - sitting in some stupid hole-in-the-wall place in Germany discussing stolen art with some stupid high-end thief with a ridiculous name. I need to know that you’re alive and well and breathing. I can’t-” She’s breathing fast, almost hyperventilating now. “I can’t lose you.”

There are tears streaming down her cheeks and Red knows that she’s fighting the urge to turn away and hide her face. She doesn’t like him seeing her like this, coming undone around her usually hard edges, falling apart at the seams. She’s so strong and brave - it makes his heart ache terribly for her.

Red swallows past the lump in his throat. His fingers are itching to reach out for her. He just needs to hold her, just needs to feel the warmth of her body in his arms, to smell her hair and kiss her forehead, and if he could just do that everything would be okay again, he just _knows_ it. 

He can’t think of the last time he felt this helpless.

Instead, all he can do is sit there and nod. “That is exactly how I feel about you, Lizzy.”

He can tell that his words surprised her. She’s always been reluctant to accept the extent of his feelings, his all-consuming need to keep her safe.  

Lizzy shakes her head and for another brief, painful moment he fears that she’s going to leave now. But instead she sits down next to him, the outline of her thigh pressing against his hip. She’s careful not to look at him, and he wonders if she expects him to say anything else.

But then she covers his hand with her own, her cool fingers fluttering over his pulse to caress his heated skin, and nothing has ever felt this wonderful. Red’s eyes slip shut of their own accord and he knows that it won’t be long until the nauseous waves of exhaustion drag him away from her once more.  

At least this time he’ll fall asleep knowing that Lizzy will be there when he wakes up.


	4. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you both grab for the last pint of ice cream at the supermarket and end up arguing over it au

Unbelievable.

Some part of her had always known that she didn’t want to find out what kind of people shopped at a gas station at 3am on a Wednesday, but surely it wasn’t too much to expect at least some shreds of decency?

“Excuse me? Did you just take that ice cream from my cart?”

The little thief has the gull to look offended; he even pulls an exaggerated grimace of what is universally known as the ‘Who, me?’-face, as if the expensive designer suit and suave fedora somehow put him above petty supermarket etiquette (and what is he, some kind of castaway from the _Blues Brothers_? Who even wears sunglasses at night?)

“Pardon?”

“That ice cream. There was only one pint of it left, and since you entered the store _after_ me, I don’t see how you could have possibly gotten it if not from my cart.”

(She doesn’t tell him that she _saw_ him take the damned thing. He didn’t even _try_ to disguise his actions, and the thief in her is frankly _appalled_ by this blatant disrespect for criminal know-how.)

His face slips at once, the look of overcooked innocence turning into an annoyed glare. It seems that he’s entirely unimpressed by her little deductions.

“Well, it seems I’ve been caught red-handed. Not to give you the wrong impression - I don’t usually make a habit of stealing from - what are you, fresh-out-of-college?” He looks her up and down, and Liz wishes she hadn’t left her FBI batch in the car. “But there are only two things that could possibly make me forget the incredibly exhausting day I had, and since my usual masseuse is currently serving 10-20 in a jail in Uganda, I fear that I’ll have to settle for the ice cream.”

“What?” She’s temporarily stumped by all that excess information - needs a moment to shift through it, but ultimately decides that it really doesn’t matter at all, because underneath his intimidating designer suit he’s just some loser stealing ice cream from someone else’s cart at a gas station. Hell, she could probably arrest him for this, Liz thinks. She’d try it, too, if that didn’t mean having Ressler laugh in her face first thing in the morning.  

Liz shakes her head as if to clear it, and within seconds the glare is back full-force.  

“Oh no, don’t even try it! I’ve had a day from hell, too, so I’ll be taking this.”

Liz grabs the pint of ice cream from his hands and unceremoniously dumps it back into her cart before stalking past him to the cereal section.

Of course he follows her.

“I can see that the art of the trade isn’t one of your strong suits, but lucky for you I’m in the business of negotiating deals. And since you are currently in possession of something I want-”

Liz watches in disbelief as he pulls out a wad of bills and - counting them - shoves a hundred dollars into her cart before taking out the ice cream and strutting off.

Of course she follows him.

“Hey?!? Did you just - Wait up!”

“Oh, what is it now?” He stops abruptly to glare at her over his sunglasses. His tone is all sharp edges, cuttingly low and dangerous, and for some reason it really gets to her. She can’t help herself; her chin starts to wobble as her mouth twitches into a pitiful pout, and this must be the famous pitfalls of stress finally catching up to her, Liz thinks.

She quickly turns away from him because this is just what she needed - to have an emotional breakdown in front of a total stranger at a gas station at 3 am. Wonderful. Just peachy.

Liz hears him shuffle around, and she really hopes he’s leaving. God knows she’d awkwardly edge away from anyone bawling in her face like this.

“I apologize,” he says after a moment, and when she finally meets his eyes again he is worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “I didn’t… realize that this ice cream means so much to you.”

“God no! I’m not crying because of that stupid ice cream. You can have it, I don’t care-” She breaks off, doesn’t want to vent at a complete stranger in the middle of Metro Motor, but before she knows what she’s doing, the words are spilling past her lips. “It’s just that I had my first day at work today and it’s - it wasn’t quite what I imagined.”

To her surprise, he doesn’t laugh at her. Instead he just nods solemnly, his face a perfect picture of understanding and sympathy.

“You know, I’m starting to think that I went about this whole negotiation the wrong way.” Liz watches as he bites the inside of his cheek in contemplation - and wow, she must be even more off-balance than she had thought if something like that made her heart jump. “Would you possibly be interested in trading half of that ice cream for - well, I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been told that I’m a terrific listener.”

Liz feels herself start to smile because maybe 3am gas station customers weren’t all that bad after all.


	5. Role Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like this AU a lot, so there might be more of it.

His life hasn’t been the same ever since Elizabeth Keen had stormed right into it. 

She truly was a force to be reckoned with, striding carelessly into the FBI's headquarters and past a picture of her own face smiling cheekily back at her from one of the Most Wanted posters plastered onto the far wall in the entrance hall. She had been so calm, so collected when she had offered herself up as an informant, claiming that she had intelligence on some of the most dangerous and elusive criminals of the underworld.  

The catch?  

For some unfathomable reason she would only speak to Admiral Raymond Reddington. 

Ever since that day he had gone through more unfortunate misadventures than during his days at the academy (which wasn't an easy feat either; he had always been a bit too wild, too reckless): There was a train derailment and a threat of more to come, a romantic little restaurant in Montreal, and _You can be my older boyfriend from Ann Arbor_.  

There was a secret bunker hidden away miles beneath the Earth’s surface, a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose that were supposed to make him look like a professional computer hacker rather than a government official past his prime - shoved out of the way of the next generation, of the young and lithe, and directly behind a desk until they could finally send him into retirement. There was an accusation of betrayal (rightfully so) and a dying body writhing on the floor. 

There was _I have you_. 

And then there was the Stewmaker, an escaped drug lord, and a biting stench of chemicals that still made his eyes tear up whenever he thought about it. Still, the smell was nothing compared to the feeling of unimaginable helplessness as he was slipping in and out of consciousness - only to wake up to _her_ face smiling sincerely up at him, an indescribable warmth spreading through his every fiber.  

Sighing, Reddington turns away from the past and towards the present. 

Today Elizabeth had ordered him to a small shop somewhere in the finer parts of D.C. - a haberdashery, nonetheless. Reddington hadn’t been sure those even existed outside of 18th-century novels.  

As soon as he steps out of his car, she’s there to greet him. Her smile is bright and beaming as if she’s actually happy to see him, and once again Reddington finds himself wondering why she chose him specifically. So far, there hadn't been a single interaction between them that hadn't thrown him off-kilter; every moment and word and glance reminding him of her vivacity, of her vibrancy which clashes irrevocably with the garish mundanity that had become his life. 

“Red!” She’s the only one who calls him that - no matter how often he tells her that she should at least make a concentrated effort to make it look like they aren’t at the center of some illicit love affair. It would probably be better for all involved if she'd just stick to rules and conventions for once, and call him Admiral or Mr Reddington.

(But she never listens.) 

“I’m so glad you could make it on such short notice. My usual driver has some errands to run and I need a ride back to my safehouse.” 

He scoffs in barely-concealed annoyance. “Please tell me you didn't just call me away from work just so you wouldn't have to take a cab.” 

She shrugs her shoulders, looking a bit nonplussed; and he’s just about to tell her that he’s going back to the Post Office and that she can take a bus for all he cares, when two men emerge from the shop, their hands packed stack-high with expensive looking boxes draped in black velvet and violet satin. 

“Right this way, gentlemen!” With another bright - if slightly manic - smile, Elizabeth turns away from him to direct the men to his car, and Reddington watches in disbelief as they pop open the trunk and carefully tetris the boxes inside. 

“What are- Hey!” Even to his own ears his protests sound weak and half-hearted at best. But then, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance against her anyway, so instead he just hopes that she’s not using him as an unwitting courier for stolen weapons or smuggled art. 

(Again.) 

“Come on, Red. You can open the door for me.”  

There’s a tugging sensation at his right sleeve, and Reddington rolls his eyes at her childish antics (although, if he’s completely honest he’d have to say that some part of him likes this - breaking out his good manners for a woman. It’s been a while since – He cuts himself off before he can finish that particularly absurd thought). 

With an irked frown on his face, Reddington opens the door to his Mercedes and watches as Elizabeth slips smoothly into the passenger seat, her elegant Chanel dress suit looking vaguely out of place against the pitiful backdrop of his empty to-go coffee cups and Jennifer’s beat up football gear stuffed carelessly into the foot space. All of a sudden, he feels a hot-red flash of embarrassment run through him, prompting him to quickly lean over Elizabeth's lithe form to at least attempt to make some room for her, sweeping some errant paperwork together before throwing it mindlessly onto the backseat.  

Elizabeth just laughs at him. “It’s okay, Red. Don’t worry about it. Just get in already - we have work to do.” 

He stops dead in his tracks at that, and – suddenly realizing that he’s still leaning over her, their faces barely an inch apart (and if he wanted to he could easily count the coal-black lashes framing her piercing eyes) - he hastily straightens up.  

(He just barely manages to keep his head from knocking against the roof of the car, and one quick glance at Elizabeth’s barely suppressed smirk tells him that she noticed it too.) 

“Work? I thought you called me here because you needed a ride.”   
   
“Why do work and pleasure have to be mutually exclusive with you?” 

He ignored her comment and with a roll of his eyes, Reddington silently closes the passenger door and rounds the car to slide into the driver's seat.  

Meanwhile, the two men seem to have finished loading the trunk of his car with god-knows-what, and Reddington watches as they disappear back into the shop before he finally starts the car and slips it back into the passing traffic.  

It's only a moment later that Elizabeth turns to him with a serious look on her face (and all of a sudden his breath hitches in his throat as Reddington realizes that this is what she would have looked like had she stuck with her training at Quantico and pursued a career on the right side of the law – resolute and determined) and begins to tell him about a man called “the Courier”. Reddington listens attentively, all the while marveling at the picture she paints of a man who uses his own body like an instrument.  

Once he pulls up outside her latest safehouse she has finished her sinister tale of a messenger-gone-wrong and a comfortable silence has settled over them (well, after he had thwarted her attempt to turn on the radio, that is. He had gently slapped her hand away, knowing that she would just mess up his station while making fun of his taste in music).  

For a moment, they are just sitting next to each other. Neither of them is saying anything; Elizabeth just keeps her eyes firmly locked onto him and Reddington thinks that she must be waiting for him to clamber out of the car to open her door like some forlorn servant hopelessly in love with his princess. When will she learn that he isn’t that desperate (yet)? 

When he doesn’t move, she throws her head back and laughs – amused and warmhearted, so full of affection. “God, Red. We really have to work on that.”  

She gives him one last mischievous grin before she turns to open the door herself.  

He stops her just as she's about to close it again, and watches as she slowly leans down to look at him from outside his car. He resolutely keeps his eyes glued on her face to stop himself from looking at her cleavage, and if the upward twitch of her lips is anything to go by his struggle hasn't gone unnoticed by her.  

“Yes?” 

“You forgot your things.”  

“My things?”  

There's a bemused frown on her face, and Reddington feels his fingers twitch against his thigh with the sudden urge to smooth them over the lines on her forehead. 

“In the trunk?” 

“Oh!” Slowly, a smile spreads over her face, so stunning and absolutely radiant that Reddington could easily see how she had made it into the FBI's top five – surely no one would be able to resist that smile and charme for long. "Those aren't mine. They're yours."   
   
It takes his brain a few seconds to catch up with her words.  

“You’ve…,” he starts but stops abruptly when his words come out a bit gruff. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “You’ve bought me something?”   
   
Elizabeth shrugs her shoulders, the gesture seeming overly nonchalant.  

“Actually, I'm just being selfish here. I’m hoping a nice fedora will distract from those awfully cheap ties you’re always wearing. Maybe we could do something about them next, maybe add a few Zegna ties to your collection.” She pauses, bites her lip in contemplation as if she’s mentally (un)dressing him, and Reddington can feel himself flush under her unwavering attention. Eventually she shakes her head in what he assumes to be an attempt to clear her thoughts, and Reddington can't quite shake the impression that she looks like she is just coming back from a particularly pleasant daydream. 

“I’ll be off then. Thanks for the ride. Keep me up to date with the Courier.”   
   
She slams the door shut before he can say anything else to prolong their conversation.


	6. Laundry Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You left one of your shirts in the washer and it got mixed up with my stuff and i didn’t realise until you shouted at me from across the street au. Sort of.

Feeling just a little drained, Liz slips out of the Post Office and onto the busy streets of Washington. It’s been one hell of a day and right now, all she wants to do is collapse face-first onto her couch. She’s got it all planned out, too: Chinese take-out, the new episode of _Designated Survivor_ , and a glass (or two) of that wallet-drainingly expensive bottle of Merlot she saved for a particularly rainy day like a set of fine china reserved specifically for the Queen. 

She’s just about to get into her car and leave work behind for a pitiful five hours of free time when someone catches up to her. 

“Do you not understand the difference between an 11 microns thread count and a qiviuk blend?” 

Stopping dead in her tracks, Liz turns around and drags her eyes up to stare at the man who has so rudely approached her. The first thing she notices about him is the incredibly annoyed glint in his narrowed eyes which seems to perfectly match the not-quite-there- _yet_ snarl of his lips. His hands - sticking out of an impeccably tailored three piece suit - are gesticulating wildly, and Liz reflexively takes a step back to avoid being accidentally hit (he seems to have no understanding of the concept of personal space either, Liz notes and suppresses an annoyed groan).  

Overall, he looks almost mad, Liz thinks. But then again, anyone who storms up to a virtual stranger and starts ranting about - what was it? - micro _something_ -or-other could safely be considered a nutjob. 

He looks familiar though, even if she can’t quite place his face.  

“What?” 

Huffing out an incredulous laugh, the stranger shakes his head as if she had just said the most stupid thing and he is quickly running out of patience.  

“Last week, I placed one of my favorite suits into your care, mistakenly - _foolishly_  - believing your hands to be capable enough of handling a Loro Piana suit - only to have it professionally _shrunk_  two sizes for a truly indecorous amount of money.” 

Her initial reaction - a ‘What the hell are you talking about, is there someone who should be with you right now’ - slowly gives way to realization. And _god_ , Liz had thought that she was through with this stupid charade, but apparently life has a way of catching up to her. 

“Look, I’m not working at that place. I actually don’t know a thing about doing laundry-” 

He snorts, mumbles a barely audible “You don’t say” under his breath, and all of a sudden Liz feels a violent urge to punch him in the face.  

Instead, she takes a deep, calming breath and stuffs her hand inside her jacket pocket until her fingers close around the pointy edges of her FBI badge. Dragging it out from between her tangled-up earphones and a free-ranging flock of pocket lint, she briefly flicks it into his face before putting it away again.  

“I’m actually with the FBI. I was working a job - undercover. Turns out that clothes weren’t the only thing they were laundering.”  

She cringed inwardly at her own joke because really, what is this? One of those cheap police dramas on television Ressler always likes to watch? 

Still, it seems to have worked well enough. As soon as she pulled out her badge, the man had gone quiet - perfectly still, and just a little bit pale to be exact - and Liz is relieved to learn that apparently there were some people who still respected government officials.   
   
“So, you see. If you want a compensation or some damages, you can just file a request with the FBI and I’m sure they’ll get back to you in no time.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”   
   
“Great. We’re good then?” 

He nods, the movement a bit jerky and wooden. Liz can’t help but feel a bit bad about ripping the wind from his sails like that - but still. She really hasn’t got the time - or patience - to deal with this. And it’s not like she hasn’t got anything better to do, anyway.  

Offering him one last, blindingly fake work-smile, Liz turns back towards her car, thinking that after this incident, she sure as hell deserves to treat herself to some Ben&Jerry’s to go with her Merlot.    
  
It isn’t until the next day, when she is walking past the Most Wanted posters in the entrance hall of the FBI headquarters that Liz remembers where exactly she had seen the stranger’s face before.


	7. Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assorted, non-connected sick fic prompts from tumblr.

1.

 

“Just bring me a pen, Lizzy, and I will personally sign everything in my possession over to you. If you could just kindly shoot me in the head afterwards, that would be much appreciated.”

Liz snorts in barely-concealed amusement at Red’s dramatic antics. She had already known - from personal experience no less, though she could have very well done without seeing him get shot in the chest - that he coped well enough with life-threatening injuries, no big deal. After all, they were a constant safety hazard that came with the job description of being the _Concierge of Crime_.

Now, what Red clearly _wasn’t_ good at was coping with a gunshot recovery while simultaneously suffering through a vicious cold.

She’d feel bad for him if he weren’t being such a pain in the ass. He had even scared Dembe off - at least that’s what Liz secretly suspects to be the reason behind Dembe’s sudden ‘family emergency in Florida’. No one packs a pair of swimming trunks to look after a dying relative.

But at least he had been kind enough to leave behind a list of instructions on how to handle an injured-slash-sick (slash as Red insists: painfully dying) Red. Although for some reason, Liz can’t shake the feeling that this feels a bit like taking care of the neighbor’s pet turtle while the owners are away on vacation.

“I don’t think Dembe would like me to shoot you in the face.”

Unsteadily balancing a cup of steaming chamomile tea in the one hand and a tray of Mac and Cheese in the other (pointedly ignoring the disgusted grimace Red pulls at the sight of the homemade food), Liz settles down on the bed next to him, carefully putting the dishes down on his lap before leaning back against the bedrest herself.

“That’s not a refusal though.” Red points out as he picks up the tea, his fingers trembling visibly against the porcelain and Liz clamps down on the sudden urge to reach out and wrap him up in her arms.

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Liz turns away and picks up the book she had been reading before she hadn’t been able to ignore his long-suffering (and pitifully exaggerated) moans any longer and went off in search for some food.

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

 

\--

 

2.

Red wants to groan at the sheer unfairness of it all.

Of all the times to be sick, his damaged, broken body just had to pick this week. Not last month when he had been chased around the Bhutan jungle by a band of pirates, not last fortnight when he had to jump out of a flying plane to escape a particularly nasty shootout, not last weekend when he had to escape from a gradually-filling water tank like a cheap dime store magician – those would have been much more preferable times to suffer through a vicious cold.

But no – _of course_ his body just had to pick this week.

Really, he should have known.

Dembe snickers with misplaced schadenfreude as he passes his limp body lying stretched out on the couch. He looks decidedly too gleeful about this, as if there couldn’t possibly be any more pressing matters than chewing on his homemade popcorn while watching Molly Ringwald pick a prom date on television.

With a moan, Red throws his arm over his eyes, blocking out the flickering television that is doing nothing to dispense his nausea. Moving was a terrible idea nevertheless, because a moment later his body twists into another achingly raw coughing fit, his lungs burning with the effort to keep the air out – or in, he isn’t quite sure which one it is now.

It makes him feel a bit like that one time he got shot in the chest – back then, every single breath had been so excruciatingly agonizing, his body spasming with wave after wave of all-consuming pain. But even so the worst part by far had been the way his heart had torn itself into frayed pieces at the worried look on Lizzy’s face, and—

Red groans.

 _Lizzy_.

Years and years and years of self-denial, well-born patience and stealthy resolve had eventually brought him to this place: to a time and place where Lizzy was somehow – miraculously – interested in _him_.

At least that’s how he had interpreted the signs she had been giving him. Because there had been some. Signs, that is. Or signals. Whatever it was that women’s magazines kept propagating nowadays – Lizzy was showing them: Leaning in close whenever they were sitting next to each other, laughing at his jokes however silly they were, smiling more openly up at him – almost beaming brightly. Invitingly.

There were prolonged touches, lingering and warm against his skin. Stolen glances at the Post Office and in the backseat of his car, and once or twice she had even made the effort to invite him over for dinner, graciously allowing him to play and laugh with Agnes until she had finished preparing dinner.

And even though he hadn’t been quite able to believe it at first, to think that their outings and interactions were anything other than purely platonic, in the last few days, Lizzy had apparently grown tired of waiting for him to take their relationship to the next level. She had grown much bolder in her pursuits, making her intentions unmistakably clear.

And he had bolted on her.

Not because he wasn’t ready – god, no. Secretly, he had been ready for years. Had been yearning for her, ever since that first day.

It’s just that when she had slowly leaned in, her eyes fluttering closed as her hand had settled onto his chest – scorching hot even through the many layers of clothes separating his flushed skin from hers – his heart hammering away beneath her slender fingers, Red truly hadn’t wanted to ruin that otherwise perfect moment by sneezing in her face.

(Because the last time he had done just that to a woman, it had ended with him picking up the shredded remains of his favorite suit on an open airfield, and truth be told, he could really do without a repeat of that particular performance.)

And he surely didn’t want to destroy the memory of what was supposed to be a much-treasured, unspoiled moment in time between the two of them.

The perfect first kiss.

Between him and Lizzy.

Groaning in seeping self-pity, Red resists the urge to trash his legs against the couch like a heartbroken teenager who just got stood up by his prom date. It’s not his fault that he is currently falling apart at the seams – he just feels so weak and useless and most of all incredibly disappointed.

He just hopes that she will grant him another chance. Allow him to make it up to her.

But then he remembers the hurt look on her face just before he had scrambled out of her embrace, white-hot rejection tinting her eyes a shade darker, and Red isn’t entirely sure how he could possibly get her to ever forgive him for his misstep.

 

\--

 

3.

 

Biting down on the soft whimper trying to claw its way past her lips, Liz digs her fingers more forcefully into her side.

The tickles of blood streaming gradually through the flimsy polyester of her blouse and onto her trembling hand are hot and sticky, and the metallic tang drifting to her nose makes her want to gag in barely-contained disgust.

Everything is spinning – round and round in never-ending circles, and Liz briefly wonders why the room isn’t getting tired of constantly pirouetting around her. It’s a bit like that time Sam took her to ride on the merry-go-round on one of the local fairs in Nebraska, colors and sounds blurring together as they spun past her in a vivid whirlwind of impressions.

Somewhere, Red is talking.

Well, no. That isn’t completely true either. It’s not so much somewhere as right over there, because he is just standing a few feet away from her, and if she could just reach out to him, raise her hand and hold it up long enough to wave at him, then he’d surely be by her side in an instant.

Still, she doesn’t want to disturb him. If the animated gesturing and angry frown on his face is anything to go by, then he’s currently busy arguing with Samar. His voice sounds strangely distant as it drifts over to her, as if he’s talking through a fog of hazy mist. Yet, it sounds strangely nice enough. Alluring. Sort of pleasant, like a deep rumbling that’s meant to lull and sooth.

(She briefly wonders if he wouldn’t mind talking her to sleep one day. She bets he’d tell the most marvelous bedtime stories.)

Swaying slightly on her feet, Liz takes a couple of steps backwards to lean against the wall of the labyrinth they are currently in. Minutes ago she had been irritated with their Blacklister – what a stupid idea to erect a miles-long labyrinth around his big, bad evil-mastermind mansion. But now she can see certainly see its merits – the marble stone feels wonderfully cool against her flushed skin.

She wonders how much longer she can hold herself together.

Forcing her eyes back open – not that she could even remember closing them in the first place – Liz glances over at Red. She doesn’t want him to know. He would just freak out and call this whole thing off, and whatever else happens tonight, Liz can’t let him do that. Because this _matters_. This isn’t just another Blacklister, a small fish in the big pond of nefarious crimes and nighttime shenanigans.

Instead, it’s someone who can offer him answers – whatever that is supposed to mean, Liz doesn’t know. But it’s obvious that it’s a pretty important thing – that is, if the rigid set of Red’s jaw and the tense strain of his shoulders is anything to go by. Or how he seems to be running out of patience more quickly nowadays, barking at Ressler and even storming out of Cooper’s office when he wouldn’t say yes and amen quickly enough.

It’s clear that this matters to him.

And so it matters to her, too.

Which is why she cannot let him down.

Which is coincidentally why she’ll keep quiet. She’ll just keep this to herself.

With a wry smile ghosting over her lips, Liz nods to herself, satisfied with her decision. This is the right thing to do, she’s sure of it. Has never been surer of anything else in her life.

At least that’s what she thinks.

Because below her feet, the floor is shifting and somehow the ground seems to be striving upwards, reaching out towards her. It’s coming nearer, too – and for a split second Liz contemplates if maybe this labyrinth is enchanted, if it is meant to keep them in its strangling grasp forever.

It certainly seems possible, anyway. Which is why it would probably be better to keep an eye on it – just to make sure. So Liz makes sure to stare the floor down, since Red and Samar are still talking – their voices raised in the remnants of a heated argument which reminds her of smoke and fire and a gun pressed against her small hands while her parents are shouting somewhere in the distance (which is – of course – completely ridiculous. Because Samar isn’t her mother and Red isn’t-).

Still, Liz soon finds that her self-appointed task is more challenging than she had initially thought. Because this floor is a treacherous one, and even though Liz tries hard to keep her eyes from falling shut, blinking rapidly to suspend the tears burning behind her eyes like little pinpricks, it’s such a hard thing to do! To look past the black swirls dancing past her eyes, growing bigger and stronger and more powerful right in front of her. Liz briefly wonders how she could have possibly managed to do something this inherently straining for over 30 years when right now – in this very moment – it seems to be utterly impossible.

Sliding her trembling frame down the stonewall lest her buckling knees cause her to tumble face-first onto the floor, Liz slowly lets her hand slip off her wound to hang limply at her side. It’s a stupid thing to do, a quiet voice chimes teasingly inside of her, because she needs to keep pressure on the wound, or else—

What?

Liz crunches her face up in concentration. God, it’s hard to think right now. There’s simply too much going on inside her head, and yet it feels like the truly important thoughts are eluding her. Or maybe she’s dodging them? But that would take an effort – it certainly sounds exhausting, and so Liz isn’t sure if that’s what she’s doing, because right now anything that requires an active participation on her part sounds like absolute hell.

And there’s a thought, too: Why does she even bother? Staying conscious is so endlessly tiring and excruciatingly exhausting, and everything _hurts_ , so what’s the point anyway if the alternative of simply… _slipping_ is so much more appealing?

And oh, sleep sounds like pure bliss to her weary mind.

As Liz slowly drifts towards the comfortable blackness invitingly reaching out its arms towards her – beckoning her close, welcoming her into its cold embrace – she can almost hear it calling out to her.

Or maybe it’s someone else’s voice, it hardly matters anymore.

“Lizzy!”

 

\--

 

4.

 

“But Lizzy,” he whines and from the corner of her eye she can see him cringe at the nasal sound of his own voice. “It’s your fault I’m sick.”

Well, there’s really no use in dignifying that ridiculous claim with a proper response, so instead Liz just snorts and turns back to shoving her stuff inside her purse. She makes a mental check-list, too, to see if she’s forgotten anything: there’s her wallet and breath mints, her FBI badge and—

“Lizzy!”

Liz bites her lip to keep from laughing, quickly turning away so he wouldn’t see. She can’t help it though, he just sounds so pitiful and whiney – it really doesn’t suit him, and yet Liz secretly thinks that it’s somewhat cute. She certainly feels – well, not quite honored, but something close to it – at being allowed to see him like this. The _great_ Concierge of Crime reduced to a watery figure shivering with onslaughts of a vicious cold. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks slightly flushed against the pale backdrop of his skin.

What really revokes (more like downright _destroys_ – burns irrevocably to the ground) his usually larger-than-life appearance is the way he keeps shuffling from one foot to the other right next to her, following her around her apartment like a clingy puppy awaiting a treat from its master.

“You’ll be fine, Red. It’s just a cold. And really, it’s your fault – _I told you_ not to get too close when I was sick.”

He scrunches up his face as if lost in thought, and – as someone who had just recovered from this particular cold – Liz knows that right now, his mind is probably feeling foggy and slow.

“I hear your argument, and I reject it.”

Well, until now Liz had thought that arguing with Red when he was healthy and well was the worst thing in the world.

“Look, I need to go to work now. You’ve still got Dembe. I’m sure he’ll be happy to look after you-“

“It’s not the same though!”

Ignoring his whiney protests (and the coughing fit that follows them), Liz makes her way to the door. He’s trying to follow her again, and he’d probably do a much better job at it if he didn’t insist on holding on to that blanket he had wrapped around his slumped shoulders like a dying king.

And really, if she’s honest then she _does_ feel guilty about leaving him. But that doesn’t change the fact that she can’t skip another day at work – especially not to look after Red who was supposed to be somewhere across the Continent committing crimes and laughing mockingly at the US government.

And after all, it’s solely _his_ fault that he’s sick.

She hadn’t asked him to hover around her like a worried mother hen, holding her shivering body as she racked with one violent coughing fit after the other, gently stroking the damp strands of hair out of her eyes so she could watch television, reading her favorite book to her in soothing rumbles to distract her from her troubled sleep, always checking to make sure that she had enough water to drink and vitamins to take and fresh fruits to eat, and—

Ah, damn it.

Slamming the door back shut, Liz throws her purse back onto the kitchen aisle.

“Fine, you win. But if I get sick again you’ll have to take care of me, too.”

 

\--

 

5.

 

He doesn’t think he has ever come this close to having a shock-induced heart attack than in that very moment when Lizzy had ripped the door to his car open, loudly shouting “AHA!” in an accusing tone. Strangely, it makes him feel as if he had just been caught doing something - well, no, not illegal. Because that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. But something which warrants that kind of reaction, anyway.

Squinting against the sudden onslaught of sunlight streaming through the wide-open door and right into his eyes, Red sniffs in indignation as he wordlessly stares at her, inwardly willing his racing heart to calm down even as he patiently waits for an explanation for her behavior.

“I knew something was up when you didn’t make fun of Ressler for thinking that Tajikistan is a country in _Game of Thrones_.”

Red huffs and shuffles further into the comfortably cool cushions of his leather seats.

“I am truly offended that you didn’t even consider the possibility that I might have simply been trying to be a bit more polite to dear Donald. The man deserves a break, Lizzy! Maybe you could give him one as well - please, for the love of god, just end this pathetic pining of his and finally ask him out for drinks, will you?”

For a split second, Lizzy looks taken aback before she recovers and slips the stoic glare back into its place. Secretly, Red can’t help but feel smug about her obvious disinterest in her partner. It’s not that he had actually thought that Donald’s crush might be reciprocated, but it’s still nice to get a confirmation - however small and seemingly benign.

“Stop deflecting! Just tell me what’s wrong, will you?”

As so often, his preferred tactic of staring her down isn’t working entirely in his favor (he tends to lose himself in her eyes, it never does him any good). So instead, Red heaves an exasperated sigh and gives a court nod of his head.

“Fine. Since you are so adamant about finding out my big, bad secret - and let me just tell you how becoming this bossy side is on you - I am sick.”

“Sick?” She says, her voice suddenly soft. “As in dying?”

“God, no!” He huffs a bit disgruntled, shaking his head and immediately regretting it when a pounding headache flashes through his temples. “It’s just a common cold. Nothing worthy of either your time or your concern. Though I do feel a bit put-out by your apparent eagerness to see me on my deathbed.”

Lizzy rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Hmmhmm,” he gives a noncommittal hum - one of the few sounds he can still make without his throat feeling like it has been set on fire. “So, am I free to leave now? Or will there be any more sudden car examinations and surprise attacks on my person?”

When Lizzy slams the door in his face, Red is exceedingly glad that apparently, his reflexes haven’t been affected by his cold.


	8. Alternate Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Our world’s Liz wakes up in a world where Red’s a respected law-enforcement figure and she’s a criminal he’s chasing and they’ve never met before in this world.

Liz stares blankly down at the scrap of paper between her trembling fingers.

She had tried so desperately to get it right, to scribble down everything she knew (which, granted, wasn’t much now that she actually thought about it), to keep track of everything: names and numbers and dates and events. But there is only so much she could do without holding all the pieces of the puzzles inside her hands, frantically scrambling together what little cards she was holding in this game.

Looking back up at the impressive building complex looming large into the sky right in front of her, Liz draws in a sharp breath, her insides twisting with a sudden onslaught of nerves. It’s no good though, because as much as she wants to dig her heels into the ground and just turn around, this is what she has to do. So instead, Liz looks forward and determinedly walks inside.

It’ll be alright, she inwardly berates herself, trying – hopelessly, foolishly – to sooth her violently beating heart. If she just places one foot down in front of the other, if she just takes it one step at a time…

The woman behind the counter gives her an uninterested look, and Liz responds with an overly cheerful smile, just this side of manic.

(It makes her feel like a fraud.)

“Hello. I’m here to see Assistant Director Harold Cooper.” She makes sure to keep her voice even and steady, tries to keep the quiver out of it. To sound self-assured and confident instead of like a little girl playing dress-up in- well, no. Not her father’s clothes exactly. But someone else’s nonetheless.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I do not.” Liz pauses, swallows past the lump in her throat. It’s not too late to turn around, she can still end this. But ultimately it wouldn’t change a thing about the fact that this is what she’s got to do. She’s sure of it. And yet, even though it all boils down to the fact that this is her only option, Liz can’t quite shake the feeling that this is all so wrong. It’s like watching herself through a distorted mirror at a carnival’s fair.

“Tell him it’s Elizabeth Keen.”

And because she has seen the security footage of _his_ capture at the FBI’s headquarters countless times, Liz knows that she’s got exactly ten seconds to turn around, strip out of her tastefully expensive Chanel coat and kneel down on the oval emblem painted onto the center of the floor.

Indeed, it’s only moments later that she’s surrounded by a number of heavily armed men, each shouting orders as they aim their weapons at her. It’s peculiar and unsettling – because even though she had anticipated this moment, had _known_ that it would come as assuredly as one knows that summer follows spring, Liz still feels her heart clench inside her chest.

It’ll all be alright though, she silently tells herself as they haul her away. As long as she keeps sticking to the script she will be just fine.

–

Liz had never much cared for science fiction.

Tom had loved to watch the X-Files and so, in the initial honeymoon phase of their relationship – back when everything had still been rose-tinted and terribly exciting – Liz had made an effort to catch a few episodes with him. Still, her version of the FBI’s tasks and duties had differed considerably from those presented on screen, so much so that she couldn’t help but be bored out of her mind by the lack of psychopaths and criminals with sociopathic disorders.

But now? Now she had gained a new appreciation for Mulder and Scully’s bizarre out-of-this-world experiences and phenomenon. The ones that couldn’t be rationally explained away. Like walking up on Groundhog Day 200 times in a row, or being able to hurl oneself off a bridge or into a raging fire without actually dying.

Or – as in her case – waking up in a world which looked the same and even felt the same, but which was somehow completely different, starting with the differing brand tag in the back of her thighs and ending with the fact that her former colleagues and friends were now apparently chasing her through the nefarious world of crime.

Around her, the lights are slowly dying down, dimming until she is able to glimpse paste the glass exterior of the Box.

That must mean he’s here, then. Just as she knew he’d be.

Drawing in a deep breath – letting the cold air fill her lungs before eventually expelling it once again – Liz thinks back to the scrap of paper she had mindfully destroyed just before surrendering herself to the FBI. She wasn’t much of a writer, but her note-taking was sufficient enough. She had even bothered to make a checklist, even if it read a bit like an IKEA instruction: Hire Zamani, look for the other Beth, prepare to escape from a military hospital.

(Well, that last one was a bit tricky. Because if she’s honest, then Liz hopes that _he_ will show more restrain and refrain from stabbing her in the neck.)

Liz is just glad that she had had the time to write it all down, to look for the bigger picture (which still eluded her for the most part). She’d done it all as soon as she had come down from her bouts of stress-induced depression – or whatever else it had been that had messed with her psyche right after she had woken up… here. After all, she couldn’t have very well gone to a doctor, not with hers being a face that was regularly featured in the news in relation to theft and blackmail and national security threats. Although, deep down Liz hopes that somewhere out there she, too, has a makeshift mobile medic unit waiting patiently at her every beck and call.

After all, that’s the way _he_ does it.

And now that she has taken over his role it would only be fair that she gets to have all the advantages of his criminal empire, too.

Looking up, Liz waits for her eyes to adjust to the glaring lights and flickering shadows before finally allowing them to focus on his face.

He looks just the same, and yet so uncannily different that it makes her stomach lurch. Truthfully, she hadn’t been prepared for this moment, had known that it would come – yes, but actually living through it? That was something else entirely.

(Hell. It was hell.)

Liz swallows.

“Admiral Reddington,” she says, her voice sounding surprisingly steady. Smug and knowing, just like _his_ had once upon a time. “What a pleasure.”

“Well, I’m here.” He says somewhat disinterestedly, spreading his arms out in front of him and Liz finds herself on familiar grounds. She’s glad that he is sticking to the script at least because as long as he does – as long as neither of them digresses – she can do this. She can retrace her steps, take them back to the point where everything changed – another ordinary, lonely night three years from now.

If she can just hold on to the slippery shreds of sanity long enough, that is. To the strings of reality that keep unravelling like quicksand between her shaking fingers, left and right and upside down and right around her throat and pulling _tight_.

And maybe, in a few years from now, she’ll be able to make her way back. Back to _her_ Reddington and Agnes and everything familiar. Back to the taskforce and the not-quite ordinary life in which she was nothing special. In which she wasn’t #4 on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep the burning sensation behind her eyes from festering, Liz forces a coy smile.

“Do you get back home much?” The words taste bitter on her tongue. Mocking. “I haven’t been home in years.”


	9. Bakery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bakery AU

Well, they always said you catch more flies with honey.

Liz’s cheeks were slowly beginning to hurt from the fake smile she had plastered onto her face. By now she was pretty sure that she looked more like a hand-me-down version of a Stepford wife than a fresh-out-of-school pastry chef (although, to be fair, there was a good chance that well-bred trophy housewives had less flour stains on their face and hair).

Thankfully, Reddington didn’t seem to notice though. He seemed to be too distracted by the many confections and pralinees - and chocolate treat after another - lined up on the many shelves, anyway. Liz thought it was almost cute, the way his eyes positively lit up at the sight of the colorful macarons and sweetly-smelling apple turnovers, the fluffed-up muffins and cinnamon buns.

Like a child in a candy store.

“Your salted almond tart reminds me of this lovely bakery in Sicily, Lizzy. They serve the most delicious tarts, and the view-” He puffed out a dreamy sigh, briefly closing his eyes as if reliving the moment. “I think you would love it.”

Charmed (despite her best efforts to be annoyed by his obvious flirting), Liz smiled to herself as she turned away to prepare his order.

“I’m sorry, I only go on pastry-themed trips with customers after their third order.”

Reddington laughed, and Liz was startled by the sudden rush of warmth that spread through her at the fond glint in his eyes, the way he shook his head as if endlessly amused by her cheek.

And god, no. Please no. Completely mortified, Liz suppressed the urge to groan and bury her face in her hands. She was getting attached - and to Raymond Reddington of all people! How the hell had that happened?

Trying hard to ignore the pangs of duty-bound guilt squeezing at her heart, Liz began to carefully place his chocolate cake into a paper carton instead. From the corner of her eye, she threw a quick glance at the beat-up flower van parked outside on the opposite side of the street.  

Right now, Ressler was probably getting ready to throw open its doors and barge into the shop, proudly brandishing his badge and gun. He probably had a smug comment prepared, too - “The winner bakes it all, Reddington” - or something equally awkward (she’d had to listen to some of his earlier drafts back when Reddington had first wandered into their shop. Both, her and Ressler, had been a bit dumbstruck at having stumbled upon such a golden opportunity to take down one of the FBI’s Most Wanted without having even tried).

Back when they had started their little operation, they hadn’t even dared to dream of catching a big fish like Reddington. Instead, they had set their sights on a greedy loan shark who laundered money for Washington’s food critics mafia.

“Ah, so next time, you’ll allow me to _whisk_ you away?”

Another rush of warmth, so unfathomably hopeful and pleasant, and yet so utterly wrong!

Squeezing her eyes shut, Liz took a deep breath before opening them once again. Reddington was still there, still smiling - happy and whole, and for some godforsaken reason she was desperate to keep him that way.

With a deep, drawn-out sigh, Liz finally made a decision - she just hoped that in the long run, it would turn out to be the right thing.

“I think you should leave.”

She watched as his face fell, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I didn’t think the pun was that bad-”

“No, what I mean is,” Liz groaned in frustration and glanced outside, watching with growing trepidation as the van’s door slammed open and Ressler jumped out, bulletproof vest firmly in place, his eyebrows set in a grim expression. “The FBI will be here any second now, so I really think you should leave. Through the backdoor. _Now_.”

Realization dawned on his face as he followed her eyes to the group of agents slowly closing in on the little bakery. With a quick nod of thanks, he slid the box of cake from the counter before determinedly making his way to the back of the shop. Reddington was almost out the door when he stopped aprubtly to turn back towards her, his face hopeful and eager.

“Lizzy, I just want you to know that I sincerely hope that our paths will _croissant_ again.”

A surprised laugh bubbled past her lips as Reddington beamed brightly at her before finally disappearing out through the backdoor.

Just a second later, Ressler kicked the front door open, his gun pointed at thin air.

“Hey, Reddington - I guess now it’s all or muffin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The croissant pun is respectfully stolen from twitter.


	10. Soulmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU - Time Codes

Liz couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

Mere hours ago, she had wondered how someone who had just been arrested for sticking his fingers into every criminal pie in this world’s darkest underbelly could possibly look this calm and laid-back. He hadn’t even blinked an eye when Ressler had shoved him into the Box, acting as if he hadn’t got a care in the world, as if this right here - an unlisted blacksite somewhere in Washington D.C. - was exactly where he had wanted to spend his evening all along.

Back then, Liz had been entirely sure that there was no way she’d ever see him without that sharp look on his face, the infuriatingly smug smile on his lips and knowing glint in his eyes (just like he had looked at her when she had sat down in front of him, knees weak and heart beating fast as if trying frantically to climb out her throat). Liz had believed that - come hell or high water - there wasn’t anything in this world that could possibly fling Raymond Reddington off kilter.  

Which is why it was so unsettling to see him like this.  

Because one car crash and the abduction of a sweet, innocent child later, Liz found herself face-to-face with a master criminal who appeared to be decidedly on edge. His brows were slightly furrowed, drawn into a worried frown, and Liz thought that the way his fingers kept tapping against his thigh would make him an excellent opponent to have in a high-bets game of poker.

Maybe reality was finally catching up to him? Or maybe it was slowly beginning to sink in - the fact that he’d never get to set foot outside this air-tight cage again, soon to be forgotten like a secret-filled box kicked into the dusty grounds of an abandoned attic.  

Still, for some reason the agitated look on his face made her insides twist in something akin to fear (although why that should be she did not know; after all, shouldn’t she feel safe now that the streets were roamed by one less criminal?)

“Is he okay?”

Ressler shrugged, and his lack of concern sent a wave of anger rushing through her.  

“Who cares.”

Scowling, Liz turned away from him and before she even knew what she was doing, her feet carried her down the stairs and towards the Box sitting at the center of the blacksite. All around her, the lights began to flash at once as a howling siren began to pierce through the workroom chatter and watercooler talk.  

As she slowly approached him, Reddington looked up and tilted his head to the side, his face carefully blank as he regarded her with an even stare.

Taking a deep breath, Liz launched right into a series of questions - Where was the girl and did he have anything to do with Beth’s kidnapping? Why send them on a wild goose chase in the first place if he had intended for it to happen after all?

But Reddington just kept silent throughout it all, simply arched his eyebrow in a pointed look that ripped the wind right off her sails. It seemed almost as if he was wondering why she’d want to talk about the case of all things - as if there were something more pressing than the abduction of a child and a threat of more to come.

Still, the way he kept staring at her unnerved her. It was almost as if he was searching her face for a sign - for something which she was fairly sure she’d gladly give to him if it meant that he’d turn his attention somewhere else. Reflexively, her fingers began to reach for the raised skin on the palm of her hand.  

The movement caught his eye.

“May I see?”  

He sounded so hopeful, his voice catching slightly at the words. And it must have been this show of uncertainty, this lack of exaggerated confidence, that made her reach out towards him, shakily presenting her arm for inspection.  

Liz watched as if mesmerized as he slowly raised his hand, his fingers coming up just a breath away from the skin of her arm. But before he could touch her, Liz turned her arm to present the palm of her hand, the inside of her wrist marked by the vicious red of her scar.  

Reddington pulled away instantly, drawing in a sharp breath as if he had just been burned himself.  

“You don’t…”

Liz gave a defensive shrug of her shoulders as she pulled her arm back to her side.  

“I don’t mind.” She said in a clipped tone.

Over time she had gotten quite good at pretending that she didn’t care. Oh, Liz could deal with never knowing for certain if she had found her soulmate; it was all a hoax anyway - genetic mutations invented by the same industry that kept pestering couples to buy chocolate and flowers on Valentine’s Day.

But what she couldn’t deal with were the pitying looks she received whenever people found out that her mark had been burned off when she was a child.

When they realized that she was broken.

“Sometimes,” Reddington said after a moment, seemingly choosing his words with great care. There was a pensive look on his face, and yet Liz couldn’t shake off the impression that he looked almost relieved. “Ignorance is bliss.”

Liz felt a sudden flash of hot-red anger rush through her, but before she could even do so much as throw his stupid fortune cookie advice back into his face, Cooper barked some orders across the room, expecting his agents to follow a new lead in tracking down the girl.  

As she turned away to make her way back into the bullpen, Liz caught a movement from the corner of her eyes. It was barely noticeable, just a miniscule tilt of the head. Slowing down, Liz lingered for just a moment longer - just long enough to follow his eyes down to the time code branded onto the inside of his wrist. His numbers were neatly frozen in time, a constant reminder of the exact time it took him to meet his soulmate.  

How strange, Liz thought. She could have sworn that when Ressler had briefed her on Reddington’s capture earlier that day, his time code had still been running.


	11. New Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Neighbors

Liz cradles her glass of wine to her chest, pressing it carefully against the flimsy polyester of her blouse and relishing in the feeling of the cold glass against her flushed skin. It’s her third one already, and yet she fears that she needs at least another two bottles of her favorite Merlot until she’s gathered up enough courage to broach the subject that has been on her mind all day now.

Because ever since she dug up his file from the FBI’s classified section (calling in a few favors here, flirting quite heavily with the clerk there), her mind has been racing in alarmed circles while her heart keeps hammering against her ribcage almost painfully.  

It doesn’t help that her head keeps screaming at her either, telling her to run fast, run now. And then there’s also that nagging voice of self-loathing hidden somewhere deep inside of her, the one that keeps admonishing her for not having worked it out sooner.  

Because of course she knows him, knows the labyrinth-like intricacies of his mind, twisted and warped and utterly brilliant in a manic sort of way. Along with Lecter, Raymond Reddington has been at the very top of the curriculum at Quantico for years now - the favorite subject of every Psychology professor.

And yet it had taken her - a certified criminal profiler and top of her class - embarrassingly long to figure it out.  

Liz isn’t quite sure what exactly it was that had kept her from connecting the dots. But if she’d have to guess she’d say that it’s because the larger-than-life tales about Reddington - the infamous Concierge of Crime - relay an image that is so different from the man currently standing in her kitchen, happily chopping up tomatoes and paprika while chatting about his day.  

Because after all, this is the man whose face lights up whenever he passes her in the hallway, who holds the elevator for her when she’s running late (again). The man who - ever the gentleman - insists on carrying her groceries for her, who shares his dinner with her whenever he has ordered too much (which seems to be the case more often than not).  

And of course, like some overly naive Red Riding Hood she had invited him inside, charmed by his quick wit and easy smiles. She should have known better, should have known that this is the stuff cautionary tales are made of: Oh, I thought he was just the cute guy from next door, I didn’t know that he used to run a criminal empire, silly me.

However, Liz had never gotten that impression from him. Even though he loved to discuss her work (she was incredibly flustered when he had confessed to having read all of her essays and articles, and god, the way he had talked about them? As if they were a literary masterpiece he hadn’t been able to put down), his interest had always been professional, clinically passionate. There was no hint of bloodlust or longing on his face, no indication that he wanted to take up an axe and go on a killing spree.

Instead, he was always helpful, gently steering her in new directions which she hadn’t previously considered. Somehow, he seemed to have such intimate knowledge of the way criminal minds worked - and it wasn’t just the hard-earned experience of a retired officer or high-ranking government official, but rather something… more. Something darker.

And of course, Liz had heard the rumors. About how the FBI’s Most Wanted had suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth, never to be seen again.  

How he had been killed in a freak accident involving a parachute without strings.

How karma had finally caught up to him in form of a rising-through-the-ranks agent with a trigger-happy finger.  

How his plane must have crashed somewhere high above the Bermuda triangle, fatefully returning the body of a former naval officer to the sea.  

How he had been apprehended - finally, thankfully - and locked away in some far-off Blacksite, gone for good.  

How he had struck a deal with the FBI that had gifted him a second chance, buried somewhere deep inside the witness protection program.

(While Liz could certainly see a spark of truth in any of those possibilities, the thought that he might somehow end up living just across the hall from her place seems utterly unconceivable.)

Drawing in another sip of her wine, Liz lets her mind snap back to the present.    
She hasn’t taken her eyes off of him ever since he entered her apartment, hands full of plastic bags, vegetables and freshly-baked bread peeking out over the top.  

She has finally given in to his constant pouting, all the claims that the he could no longer stand the smell of cheap instant ramen drifting over to his own apartment just across the hall. So now he’s making her dinner, and as with all things, he’s being so endlessly enthusiastic about this, as if the time he gets to spend at her place is the highlight of his day (his week, his life), as if he couldn’t possibly imagine being anywhere other than here with her.  

He’s so cheerful, and she really hates to do this, but her insides are fighting a raging war, a hopelessly lost one, too, because before she can even fully make up her mind, the words are tumbling right out of her mouth.

“I know who you are.”

He freezes, but still he doesn’t look at her, just keeps his face turned carefully away, his body angled towards the kitchen surface. Liz watches as his shoulders settle into a rigid frame, takes note of the way his fingers clench around the knife’s handle before he relaxes his grip once again.

At last he turns to face her.  

“I see.” His lips twist into an unhappy smile and Liz can feel her heart clench at the pained look on his face. “And what now, Lizzy?”

Liz doesn’t know what to say. This isn’t what she expected – she’d have thought that he might lash out, that he might be angry at being found out, or even scared that she might sell him out (because god knows she could probably make a fortune out of this). Still, the way he holds himself, his shoulders slowly slumping, his head tilting to the side, carefully gauging her reaction…

And then there’s the dark look in his eyes, weary and forlorn. Resigned.

Making a decision, Liz shrugs.  

“Now, I think you should finish making that stew. I’m starving.”

The tingling warmth that spreads through her at the way his face lights up is enough to let her know that she has done the right thing.


	12. Faint

“I’m fine, Lizzy.” 

She snorts in derision and mumbles, “Yeah, I can see that.”

How a man on the verge of folding in on himself like a house of cards can possibly muster up such an obscene amount of ignorance concerning his own fragility, Liz isn’t sure. Because if there is one thing he isn’t, then that’s fine. Difficult, ridiculous, the (feverish) bane of her existence - yes to all of that. 

Next to her, Reddington is staggering slightly, his feet dragging and stumbling, and Liz is sure that if it weren’t for the steadying arm she’s got around his waist, he would have tumbled to the ground a long time ago. Sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye, Liz can see that his cheeks are slightly flushed, his brow visibly sweating.

“Let’s just concentrate on getting back to Dembe, alright?”

Reddington makes an undignified sound caught somewhere between an annoyed huff and a pitiful whine, and Liz has a hard time on holding off the urge to roll her eyes at his antics. 

“Lizzy, I told you-” He begins in a raspy voice, but before he can even finish that particular complaint his knees bend over and his whole body lurches forward. It’s a close call - because if Liz had just reacted a split second later, Reddington would have collapsed onto the ground, tumbled unceremoniously to the concrete floor in a disarray of fever-heated limbs and expensive Italian suits. 

“It’s alright, I’ve got you!” She mumbles. It’s more to reassure herself than him, considering that he seems to be unconscious, his eyes closed and his features slack as if asleep. His lashes graze the apples of his cheek, the blond hairs throwing crescent shadows across his pale skin - and okay, maybe she should look somewhere else, take in the scratchy walls next to his head instead. 

Well, this isn’t awkard at all, Liz thinks. She’s got him pressed against the wall, her knee wedged carefully between his legs to keep him upright, her arms slung around his waist in what could easily be misconstrued as a passionate embrace between lovers. It doesn’t help that her chest is pressed tightly against his either, their faces just a breath apart. 

“Great.” Liz groans as she lets her head fall to his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut in exasperation. “This is just great.”


	13. Lingerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship; Lingerie

“What’s in the box?” 

Lizzy snorts in amusement, and Red isn’t exactly sure why, but somehow, he gets the feeling that she’s laughing at him. Trying to ignore his freshly-ruffled feathers, Red frowns and watches as Lizzy puts the cardboard box down on the kitchen table before proceeding to tear into the packaging with a pair of scissors.  

“I ordered some stuff online. Mostly lingerie.” She looks up at him with a heated look in her eyes, and if the mere thought of seeing Lizzy in new lingerie (ones she had likely chosen with him in mind) wasn’t already enough to send his heart racing in barely-contained anticipation, then the mischievous smile on her lips would certainly do him in. “Want to help me decide which ones to keep?” 

Red hums, low and appreciative, as he looks back at the box. He can barely wait to find out what she picked out, all the colors and textures, silk and lace and other things which would hopefully do an obscenely awful job at covering her from his view. 

 _God_ , he hopes she picked something racy. Preferably red.  

Swallowing hard, Red drags his eyes back to Lizzy. She’s looking decidedly too smug for his liking, eyes glinting in open playfulness as her teeth tug at her bottom lip in a show of exaggerated innocence.  

Red clears his throat.  

“Considering that you ordered them from some undoubtedly cheap outlet, I don’t see why you have to choose at all.” 

“Because I don’t have enough space for endless lingerie, Red." 

“You could move into a bigger place. Perhaps a nice house in the suburbs - picket fence and chatty neighbors who stop by for tea. You could have a whole room for lingerie.” 

Setting the pair of scissors aside, Lizzy throws him a look - raised eyebrows, her lips tugging slightly upwards at the corner - which he has come to understand means that she thinks he’s being cute. 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” She says after a beat, and he watches as she picks up the box and disappears into the bedroom. As the door closes behind her, Red thinks that he might as well get comfortable while waiting for her to dress up (or down, depending on one’s regard and appreciation for underwear). 

Slipping behind the kitchen counter, Red takes out an empty glass and a bottle of scotch (briefly pausing to admire his handiwork. It had taken him some sneaking around, some breaking-and-entering-and-balancing bottles of ‘99 Merlot, some  _accidental_ wine bottle breakages, but eventually Red had managed to replace the truly gruesome swamp-colored brew Lizzy kept trying to pass of as red wine).  

Taking a sip of his scotch, Red settles down on the couch facing Lizzy’s bedroom, eagerly awaiting the show.  

It doesn’t take him long to realize that he clearly hasn’t thought this through.  

He blames it on his overactive imagination - because if he hadn’t spent the past few minutes imagining Lizzy dressed in various truly-indecent sets of lingerie (ranging from a tastefully conservative one-piece with garter belts to a hot-white slip and bra with matching angel wings), he’d have surely realized that the whole point of a show was that one couldn’t stop halfway through (as Lizzy had so rudely reminded him by batting his hands away from set number 1 - a lovely royal-blue bralette and matching slip that had made her eyes positively glow).  

And so, Red finds himself groaning in pent-up frustration whenever Lizzy turns away to slip back into the bedroom. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Red crosses and uncrosses his legs. Forget that time he was chained up to a basement ceiling in some beaten-tracks prison in Malibu for a whole week, _this_ \- right here, with Lizzy dressed in some of the most alluring underwear he had ever seen, close enough to touch and yet out of reach - was _real_ torture.  

The door opens once again, and Red sucks in a breath as he watches Lizzy emerge from the room, dressed in nothing but an emerald-colored bralette and matching slip, the dark lace so sheer and see-through that it makes him want to drag his teeth across the bra's fabric, over the swell of her breast and down her side and over her pubic bone and- 

Red groans. 

“ _God_ , Lizzy.” 

She watches him closely, seemingly searching his face for some sign or other. It doesn't take her long to find whatever it was that she had been looking for, because after a moment, she turns away.  

“This is going back then.” 

“What, why?” His voice comes out as a whine, and Red clears his throat, desperately hoping to pass it off as the result of a dry throat – an oncoming cold, instead of the displeasure he feels at the thought of never getting the chance to slip this particular set off Lizzy's body.  

Lizzy shrugs her shoulders. 

“It didn’t get a tongue-roll.” 

“A what now?” 

Lizzy rolls her eyes as if he’s being silly - and maybe he is. Truth be told, it’s a bit hard to focus on their conversation, what with Lizzy standing just a few feet away from him, her dark locks tumbling over her shoulders, as dark against her pale skin as the emerald lace clinging to her body. 

“You always do that thing with your tongue when you think I look nice - sort of roll it around the inside of your cheek?”  

She scrunches her face up in what has to be the most endearing display of concentration, and parts her lips to touch her tongue to the back of her teeth before slowly letting it fall to the side. Reflexively, Red finds himself mimicking the motion before catching himself and clamping his mouth shut. 

“You did it with the first three sets,” Lizzy continues after a moment, and the raise of her eyebrow lets him know that his little slip hasn’t gone unnoticed. “So those ones are all keepers.” 

Red blinks a few times, trying to make sense of her words. It takes him a moment to shift through them though, and then yet another to quench down on the feeling of embarrassed indignation rising up inside of him.  

Feeling slightly flustered, Red shakes his head.  

“That’s not fair, Lizzy. For one - I wasn’t even aware that you were using me as some kind of market fair barometer-” 

He resolutely ignores her amused snort.  

“And secondly,” He reaches out for her, and this time, she doesn’t bat him away. Instead, she allows him to trail his fingers across her skin, and Red watches with fascination as his touch leaves goosebumps in its wake, silently reveling in the warmth of her skin, how soft it feels against the pads of his fingers.  

When he finally reaches the silken material clinging to the curve of her hips, he carefully slips his fingers underneath the fabric. He gives it a slight tug, not nearly forcefully enough to tear the flimsy lace, but just enough to encourage Lizzy to step between his parted legs. 

Leaning slightly forward, Red places a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the slip’s waistband. Above him, he hears Lizzy gasp, breathless and aroused, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from pulling her onto his lap. 

When he speaks at last, his voice comes out as a deep rumble. 

“Secondly, I’m fairly certain that you can only return these if they are in absolute mint condition.” 


	14. Flirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm flirting with you."

Alright, that took the cake. Literally.

Red watched as Lizzy popped a piece of cake - the one she had just stolen from his plate - into her mouth, lips parting in obvious delight as a content moan escaped her throat.

It wasn’t that he minded, no. It was just that Lizzy didn’t usually enjoy the places he picked for their little lunch dates - or, well, she usually wasn’t this open about her appreciation for them, anyway. Oh, she tagged along, alright. With a grim frown on her face that made her look as if he were leading her right up to the scaffold.

But for some reason today was different though. Throughout their whole lunch, Lizzy had been surprisingly tactile, openly stealing bites off his plate, brushing her hand against his when he passed her the sugar, moaning blissfully at the taste of her chocolate tart. She was smiling at him, too. Warmly and - if he didn’t know any better - almost adoringly.

As if she actually liked him.

None of it added up. It was so far out of Lizzy’s normal range of behavior that Red was starting to get suspicious. But after throwing an inconspicuous glance-over around the room, he still came up with nothing. As far as he could tell there were no suspicious characters around, nothing that could possibly be a threat to either of them. Nothing whatsoever that warranted this kind of behavior from her. Nothing she’d have to warn him about by…

…touching his bicep while cooing a surprised-sounding  _oh_  and  _so strong_  and - 

Red swallowed as his eyes followed the movement of her hand on his arm, rubbing and stroking, her touch scorching hot - burning - through the many layers of jacket and shirt and undershirt and skin at last.  

Dragging his eyes back to her face, Red stared at her, blinking slowly, his face scrunched up in confusion. He felt more than just a little helpless. Thrown off kilter with no sense of direction left.

“Lizzy,” He said, slightly hesitant. “What is going on?”

“I’m flirting with you.”

He drew in a sharp intake of breath, almost choking on the air that rushed through his lungs. His heart - battered old thing that it was - didn’t help either; all at once it jump-started into a frantic rhythm that was surely far-removed from being healthy or normal. Lizzy-induced, that’s what it was. Just the same as the sudden rush of heat racing through his body.

“Why?” He asked, and if he weren’t so damn distracted by the feel of her fingers squeezing his arm, he’d surely be embarrassed by the tone of his voice: a barely-there, thread-bare whisper, more texture than sound.  

(He sounded absolutely pathetic, alright. It was just that he couldn’t really fathom why Lizzy would want to flirt with him. Why she would want to be nice to him, touch him, lean in close. Make him feel desirable and  _loved_.)

Lizzy rolled her eyes.

“I’m trying to make a point.” She said. “I can be just as  _alluring_  as Samar.”

Ah. Right.

He should have known that he had hurt her pride by asking Agent Navabi to accompany him to the gala. Come to think of it, Lizzy had looked a bit sour when he suggested it, that lovely crease between her brows, the downward twitch of her lips as if she had just tasted something bitter. He should have been more considerate, he supposed. After all, he knew that she was prone to jealousy, and–

Suddenly, Lizzy scratched her fingers against the back of his head, and Red’s eyes fluttered shut on their own accord as an appreciative groan rumbled through his chest.

“Lizzy, could-” He cleared his throat, his eyes blinking open - lazy and just slightly dazed. It took a considerable amount of effort to concentrate, to fight the growing urge to lean into her ministrations, to let the sensations wash over him: the warmth of her touch, pleasant and tingling, and the smile on her face, almost loving.

“Do you think she looks better in a dress?” Lizzy said, and Red wanted to groan in exasperation. Would have, too, if Lizzy hadn’t dragged her nails down the side of his neck in a barely-there whisper of a touch. “I can clean up nice.”

Oh, he knew that. He still fantasized about that red dress, the one she had worn to their little outing at the Syrian embassy. How it had flowed down her shoulders in vibrant waves, how impossibly long her legs had looked in it (how he had burned with the desire to slide his hand up the inside of the slit on the side of her dress, desperately seeking the warmth of her skin, it’s silky smoothness). How lovely it had made her look - accentuating the slight flush of her cheeks.  

“Or do you think I’m too closed-off? Stand-offish?”

Red jumped slightly as Lizzy slid her left hand over his thigh, teasingly stroking the tense line of his leg. Even through the daze of lust that was starting to cloud his brain, Red could feel her fingers digging into his flesh, nails scraping against the cotton of his pants, smooth and hot and coming dangerously close to brushing against the tightening inseam of his crotch.

“Because I can be promiscuous. If that’s what you need me to be.”

“Lizzy.” He said, warningly.

Her nails bit into the back of his scalp before gently ghosting over the skin of his neck, fleetingly brushing against the underside of his jaw. Reflexively, Red found himself tilting his head to allow her fingers to slip past the collar of his shirt, beneath the knot of his tie - so tight and restricting, cutting off his air.

Meanwhile, her left hand continues up its path on his thigh, and the sight alone was enough to leave him dizzy, head spinning and heart racing. Snapping his eyes back up to her face, Red was surprised to find her just a few inches away from him, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly dark. It would be so easy to close the distance between them. To lunge forward and press his lips against hers in an unforgiving kiss, hard and consuming.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Red inhaled sharply.

“I didn’t ask you because I don’t want you to flirt with other men.”

Her ministrations stopped at once, and Red let out the breath he’d been holding, the rigid set of his shoulders sagging slightly. Silently, Lizzy blinked up at him, her face scrunched up into a pensive frown. She was so close, still. He could just make out the brownish flecks in her blue eyes, the crescent shadows of her lashes against the pale skin of her cheeks - slightly flushed now, too.  

“Oh,” she said after another moment. “Alright then.”

And just like that she let go of him, leaning back into her seat before picking up her fork and continuing to dig into her cake as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just left him tethering perilously close to the edge, pleasure thrumming through his veins, heart racing and muscles trembling.  

Red wasn’t sure whether he should feel relieved or disappointed.


	15. Flirty II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just pretend to be my date." (Sequel to Chapter 14 - Flirty)

It had taken her an embarrassingly long time to catch on to what he was doing.

When Reddington had led her through the bar earlier, stubbornly steering her towards a dark corner booth, his hand pressing - hot and possessive - against the small of her back, his face close to hers as his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, telling her to _Just pretend to be my date, Lizzy_ , she had played along without giving it any further thought.  

A willing participant in his little ruse, in this play of cat-and-mouse he had started. By now she had gotten used to it, to the way he’d throw a ball into her court before leaning back to watch her, intent on seeing how she’d handle his challenge this time, his eyes filled with mirth and pride alike.

She usually did a much better job at it, too. But to be fair, right now it was hard to focus on anything that wasn’t the rough pads of his fingers grazing and stroking mindlessly against her shoulder before dipping - teasingly, daringly - beneath the straps of her dress.

Liz shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The movement sent Reddington’s palm sliding higher until it rested against the back of her neck. It didn’t seem to faze him though, not in the least; He just continued on with his ministrations, busily brushing and caressing and toying with the wispy baby hairs at the nape of her neck.

Swallowing down on the whimper that was trying hard to claw its way past her lips, Liz tried to ignore the tickling sensations his touch left in its wake. The way it made the air hitch almost painfully inside her throat. How it caused her heart to pound, her cheeks to flush. How it set her nerve endings ablaze, one after the other, burning brightly.

Liz was debating whether she should just slap his hand away or continue to bat her eyelashes and play nice when Reddington chuckled and carefully extracted his arm from around her to reach for his beer. Well, Liz thought, some problems solve themselves after all.  

Breathing a sigh of relief, she tried to quench down on the sudden feeling of disappointment that - unbelievably, unreasonably - spread through her at the loss of his touch.

But a moment later, all sense of fair play and truce and security vanished as Reddington angled his body slightly towards her, flashing her a bright grin, smug and mischievous and so utterly unfounded that it took her just a second too long to catch on.

Before she could fully make sense of his actions, Reddington had already turned back to their informant, launching head-first into another one of his stories - something about his latest skiing trip to the Andes that made Liz want to scream in frustration. She just wanted to grab him by the collar and ask him what the hell was going on, what game he was playing-

But then Liz jumped as his hand settled high on her thigh, resting just below the hem of her dress, his fingers slightly wet and ice-cold to the touch, and Liz realized that this must have been why he had opted for beer instead of ordering his customary glass of scotch. The bastard had planned this, had planned to slip his fingers - icy from the damp perspiration coating his beer - over her heated skin. Hot and flushed and bothered.

From the corner of her eye, Liz could see his lips twitch in obvious self-satisfaction, and all of a sudden, she felt the urge to strangle him.

(Knowing Reddington, he’d probably enjoy it though, the bastard.)

Slowly, his fingers began to move, carelessly crumpling the hem of her dress as they drew higher on her thigh, and when he curled his fingers so his nails would scratch lightly against the inside of her thigh, Liz drew in a sharp breath at the burning heat that rushed through her to pool low inside her stomach.

Reddington was still talking, of course. Something about pine needles and German beer, and Liz was sure that there was more to the story than an off-color tale about a pretty woman in an abandoned ski lodge - if she could just concentrate, damnit! If she could just ignore the way his fingers kept drawing higher and higher, closer and closer to-

Clenching her teeth so hard it almost hurt, Liz’s hand shot out to stop Reddington from discovering that she wasn’t wearing any underwear by clamping her fingers around his in a near-bruising grasp.

He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he turned towards her with a smile that might have appeared adoring to anyone who wasn’t standing close enough to see the smug glint in his eyes. Without looking away from her, Reddington slowly raised their hands and brushed a lingering kiss against her knuckle before letting their hands fall to rest on his knee.  

A confused frown spread over her features. He wasn’t pulling away - not even as he returned his attention to their informant, gladly continuing his ridiculous tale of woe-be-me, and his apparent nonchalance left Liz feeling slightly heady, her mind muddled. Somehow, she wasn’t entirely sure who exactly had won this little game of tug-of-war, but…

Leaning back in her seat, Liz allowed a content sigh to slip past her lips. Her heart was beginning to slow down, now no longer a violent thudding but a steady tingling inside her chest. With one last glance at their hands - his palm pressed against hers, their fingers entwined, warmly, safely - Liz smiled.


	16. Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after their time on the run.

“What’s this?”

Aram - his face suddenly turning an unhealthy beet red - sputters and darts forward to slam his laptop shut. For a moment he looks like he’s on the verge of one of his nervous breakdowns, and if Liz didn’t know any better she’d almost suspect that she had just stumbled over his secret stash of porn.

“What? Nothing. That’s nothing.” He says quickly. He’s not meeting her eyes though, apparently opting to look at his shuffling feet instead, and really, Liz thinks, he should know better by now than to assume she will just let this go. Unfitting as it might be: right now, Liz feels a bit like a dog with a bone. 

“Did you, uh-” Aram clears his throat. Coughs once and shuffles his feet a bit more. “Did you want another glass of wine? Mr. Reddington gave me some bottles for my birthday…”

By the time he realizes his mistake, he’s already halfway into the kitchen. Whirling around, he finds her hands are already prying the laptop open as if it’s Pandora’s Box, containing the mysteries of the universe - shining, shimmering, splendid.

She doesn’t even bother to look sheepish.

Aram heaves a sigh - heavy and just this side of fond exasperation - before slumping down next to her on the couch. 

“Okay, fine.”

   


\--

   


“Okay, so. Remember when you and Mr. Reddington were on the run?”

“Vaguely.” She mumbles into her glass of wine. It doesn’t escape her that Aram’s own glass is filled to the brink, the red liquid coming perilously close to sloshing over the rim whenever he picks it up, his fingers rubbing nervously against the handle before putting it back down again, wine untouched. 

“Well, yeah. Okay.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “You guys were in the news a lot - like, all the time. And I guess there were some people - uh,  _fans_ , I suppose - who thought you were a bit like Bonnie and Clyde. Or Hanni-”

“Please don’t say it.”

Aram gulps his mouth shut. “Well, anyway. Some people were really into that - uh - into that whole life of crime. And they decided to write stories about it. About you two.”

“What,” Liz scrunches her face up in confusion. “Like those freak crime bloggers?”

“More like, ah…” Aram pauses, his eyes darting to the door as if he were considering his escape options. “Fiction?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Alright, look here.” He hauls his laptop between them and pops it open. A second later the screen flickers on to a white page covered in neatly outlined rows of text. “ _While on the run, Reddington and Keen take shelter from a storm in an_ _abandon_ _ed_ _cabin in the woods where they will have to face their inner demons."_

“... You know that never happened right. That’s completely ridiculous.”

Aram just shrugs. 

   


\--

   


“Stupid.” 

Liz tosses the laptop aside and gets up to pour herself another glass of wine. Against all logical reason, she’s had a look at the website Aram had shown her. It’s silly, of course. Not something she should waste a perfectly good Saturday night on. And yet...

Slumping back down on the couch, Liz turns on the TV. There’s nothing on though, just the never-ending news cycle, turning around itself like a dog chasing its own tail. Nothing to distract her from the emptiness of her apartment, from its screaming silence.

From the loneliness inside of her.

Sighing, Liz turns the TV off and lets her eyes wander restlessly around the room, until eventually, they fall back on her laptop. 

She might as well give it another try, Liz thinks and drowns the rest of her wine in one go. For courage.

   


\--

   


She’s surprised to find that it’s just like reading a good book. The story she picked - completely at random, two down and three to the left - is well-written and catchy, although the plot might be considered a bit far-fetched: Something about an orphaned princess who is desperately searching for her roots, her family, herself.  A place where she belongs. But what she finds instead is an outlaw, an old-fashioned, well-mannered, fedora-wearing gunslinger who has made it his personal mission to shield her from the evils of the universe.

Literally. 

Liz never would have thought that she’d be into intergalactic adventure stories, but here it is.

At first, it had been weird to see her name pop up in a story. Though, Liz thinks, she probably should have gotten used to it by now. After all, the world of literature is filled with Elizabeths; they must make wonderful heroines. 

And anyway, it’s nice to see Red’s name - right there, in black and white, never far from hers. Unlike his real-life, flesh-and-blood counterpart who is currently trotting around halfway around the globe. An arms deal in Italy, a heist in Portugal - his schedule reads like a that of a Bond villain. Liz imagines him lounging in the sun like a pampered housecat on a Sunday evening, fedora drawn low on his face, eyes hidden behind a pair of expensive sunglasses.

When Liz goes to bed later that evening, it’s with a feeling of warmth coiling inside her chest, and her laptop - perched on the nightstand - never far out of reach.

(That night, she dreams of bright stars and sharp heels drumming against the metallic floors of futuristic spaceships. She dreams of moonlight serenades and foreign planets. Of her hand clasped tightly in Red’s, never letting go.)

   


\--

   


She’s figured out how to pull the story up on her phone, which makes for much easier reading - at her kitchen table during breakfast, in the elevator descending into the bullpen, whenever her car hits another red light on the way home, in the bathtub after an exhausting day at work. 

She’s halfway through already. Reddington and Elizabeth have just managed to track down their intergalactic nemesis - a powerful alien who wants to destroy all of time and space. There’s a string of misfortune, one mishap after the other. Explosions and shootouts. Fire, flames and biting smoke, and Reddington and Elizabeth are trapped inside a storage room with no way out. Their enemies are waiting for them to surrender, lingering outside the door like vultures on a death watch. 

Liz opens up the next chapter. She’s just dying to find out how they’ll escape this seemingly hopeless situation, what they could possibly do to--

Liz chokes on her coffee, her face burning.

   


\--

   


“Liz, what-”

“You didn’t tell me this was  _porn_!” She hisses, still feeling incredibly embarrassed, as she pushes past Aram into his apartment.

“W-What?”

“Those stories!”

She pushes her phone into Aram’s chest so he can take a closer look at it himself. Selfishly, she wants the words to burn themselves into his mind - just like they have into hers. Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing frenzied kisses and trembling fingers clutching at clothes, ripping apart at the seams. Skin coming alight under each other’s touch, burning brightly. Scorching hot.

“I thought these people were just being cute, imagining a life on the run. You didn’t tell me that what they were actually imagining was Reddington and me - going about it like rabbits!

“Well, there’s a thought.”

Liz freezes at the sound of his voice. And just like that, she can feel her anger ebbing away, can feel it losing its hot-red color, the stinging edges, the glaring vibrancy - until there is nothing left but an all-consuming feeling of utter humiliation.

God no, she thinks.  _Please_  no. 

Forcing herself to turn around, Liz finds Red standing in the doorway to Aram’s living room, his face the perfect picture of pure, unadulterated amusement. 

(And oh, what Liz wouldn’t give to be the one holding that glass of wine about just now.)

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, let’s not get hung up on such trivial matters like spontaneous visits to friends. Please keep going, Lizzy. I would absolutely  _hate_  to interrupt your captivating story about - what was it - something about rabbits…?”

“Just forget it!” She barks out - a bit too quickly, too intently. 

She’s willing her brain to come up with an excuse that is at least somewhat believable. Funny, she’s usually so good at thinking on her feet. But right now, her head is a jumbled mess, her cheeks flushed and burning, her palms sweaty and hot. She blames it on Red's unwavering attention. If he’d just look away from her for a moment, just give her a moment to recover, to compose herself – Liz is sure she'd hold up much better. 

But Aram - bless his blundering soul - is making it even worse without her having to say even a word more.

“Ah, I see. This is a slowburn one - see, Liz, that means that it’s a slow romance--”

“Okay, thanks, I get it!” She says and - grabbing the phone out of Aram’s hand - flees the apartment, high-tailing out to the sound of Red’s chuckles and her blood rushing in her veins, drumming loudly inside her head.

He’ll never let her live this down.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me experimenting with different ideas and verses; if you'd like to leave a prompt feel free to do so in the comments or on tumblr (I'm sorrydearie over there). Feedback is always welcome :)


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